Yeon Sangwo sat on the infirmary cot, silent.
His fingers trembled in his lap. He could still feel the silk robes. Still smell the burning torches. Still see Donald—dying in his arms. Again.
Across the room, Donald paced. "You passed out cold, Yeon. What happened?"
Yeon looked up. "I saw something."
Donald turned. "Saw what?"
Yeon's lips parted—then stopped. How could he explain it?
"You… were in it," he whispered. "But it wasn't here. It wasn't now."
Donald's brows drew together. "A dream?"
"No. A memory."
---
The bell rang.
Students filled the halls outside, laughing, running—but the noise felt far away.
And then—
The door opened.
Jae stepped inside.
He didn't look surprised to see them. His perfect posture. His calm gaze. His cold, unreadable smile.
Yeon's chest tightened.
Donald's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
Jae ignored him.
His eyes locked on Sangwo.
"Do you remember it now?" he asked softly.
The room went still.
Yeon couldn't speak.
Jae took a step forward.
"I've waited a long time for you to remember."
Donald moved between them. "Back off."
But Jae didn't even blink.
"You were a king," he said, his voice like velvet laced with venom. "And he was your secret. Your soft spot."
Yeon's breath caught.
Jae tilted his head. "But you forget the most important part, Your Majesty."
He smiled. That same haunting grin.
"I was the one who killed him."
The memory didn't come like a dream this time.
It came like a wave.
A flood behind Sangwo's eyes, drowning him in golden light and shadows, silk and blood.
---
The royal court shimmered beneath torchlight. Velvet banners hung heavy from the walls. Guards stood silent. And in the middle of the throne room, on the cold marble floor—
Sangwo knelt. Dressed in crimson robes. Gold rings on his fingers. The royal pin in his hair.
But he wasn't the king.
Not really.
He was the decoy. The substitute. The "prince" the world saw while the real one hid in darkness.
And he had broken the one rule whispered to him since birth:
> Never steal what belongs to the true king.
---
A sword clattered to the floor.
Blood stained its edge.
And in Sangwo's arms—
Donald.
He gasped, coughing blood, hands clutching Sangwo's robes.
"Stay with me," Sangwo whispered. "Please. Please—"
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He turned.
Jae.
Not Jae.
Crown Prince Jaeheon.
He wore black, not red. A robe of silk so dark it seemed to bleed into the floor. His blue eyes were cold. Lifeless.
But his hands were trembling.
"You lied to me," Jae whispered.
Yeon's voice cracked. "I didn't mean to—"
"You were supposed to be mine," Jae said. "You were made for me. Raised in my shadow. Meant to serve. To obey."
Yeon clutched Donald tighter. "I loved him."
"And what about me?" Jae's voice shook. "Did I mean nothing to you? All those nights you looked at me like I was the moon—was that all a lie too?"
Yeon's heart broke at the pain behind those eyes.
He had loved Jae, once. Quietly. In childhood. Before power turned him cold. Before jealousy turned him cruel.
"It wasn't a lie," Yeon whispered. "But I chose him."
Jae's smile cracked.
And for a second—
Just a second—
He looked like a boy again. Scared. Lost.
Then his face hardened.
"You don't get to choose."
He turned his back.
"Let the world think you're king. Let them worship you. But you'll always know the truth."
"You were never mine—because you stole yourself from me."
And then he vanished into the dark.
Back in the present—
Sangwo woke up on the infirmary bed.
Tears stained his cheeks.
And in the corner of the room, leaning against the window, Jae stood watching him.
Expressionless.
Silent.
"Now you remember," Jae whispered. "Finally."
The light in the infirmary had changed.
Softer now. Paler. Like the sun outside had turned to frost.
Yeon sat on the edge of the cot, heart still racing from the memory—no, the vision. His head ached. His fingers trembled. He could still feel the weight of silk robes, the iron tang of blood.
And Jae stood at the window, watching him like he'd been waiting centuries for this moment.
Yeon stared at him. "Remember what?"
Jae didn't answer right away. He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question—or by Yeon himself.
"That depends," Jae said, walking closer, "on what you think you saw."
His footsteps were slow. Precise. Not threatening. Just... too calm.
Yeon clenched his fists. "You were there. In the dream. The palace. The blood—"
"Was it a dream?" Jae asked. "Or something else?"
Yeon's breath caught.
Jae stood only a few feet away now. Close enough to touch.
His eyes—blue and piercing—held something old. Something Yeon couldn't name.
"Why me?" Yeon whispered. "Why are you following me? Why am I remembering this?"
"You're not remembering," Jae said, "You're returning."
Yeon shivered.
The word curled around his spine like smoke.
Jae reached out, gently brushing his fingers along Yeon's wrist.
For a second, Yeon saw something else—
A corridor of white marble. Shadows flickering on walls. A hidden hand pressed to his back.
Then it was gone.
Jae let go.
His voice softened. "We've met before. Many times. But the story never ends the same."
Yeon's voice cracked. "What happened last time?"
Jae gave the faintest smile.
"You don't want to remember that part."
Meanwhile
Donald sat on the rooftop, back against the rusted railing, fingers tugging at the collar of his school shirt like it was choking him.
He hadn't seen Yeon in two hours.
Not since the infirmary.
Not since that boy Jae went inside.
His stomach twisted when he thought about Jae.
There was something about him. Not just the way he looked, or how quiet he was—but the way the air changed when he walked into a room. Like everything held its breath. Like the world shifted slightly sideways.
Donald closed his eyes.
He hated this feeling.
Like he was being left behind.
Like something was happening just out of reach—and it involved Yeon.
Always Yeon.
He pulled out his phone and opened his messages.
No texts.
Yeon hadn't replied. Not even seen.
The screen flickered—just once. A flicker so fast he would've missed it if he hadn't been staring.
He frowned.
The wallpaper had glitched. For just a second… it wasn't his usual background.
It was—
White.
Just endless white space.
He blinked, and it was gone.
"…What the hell."
Donald stood, brushing off his pants.
As he turned to head downstairs, something caught his eye.
A reflection.
In the rooftop access door window, he saw himself—
But not exactly.
The reflection was wearing his face.
But his eyes were wrong.
Too wide. Too dark. Like something inside him was awake and watching.
Then the reflection smiled.
Donald didn't.
His heart pounded.
He stepped back—
And the glass shattered.
Just the glass in the door. No reason. No wind.
Donald stared at the shards on the floor, breath shaky.
"This isn't just about Yeon," he whispered.
Something was pulling him, too.
And he had no idea what it wanted.